The DJ announces the first dance. Monica and Dennis take the floor to some sappy ballad about finding your person and never letting go. They sway together under the twinkling lights, lost in their own world, and the guests make appreciative noises.
My mother materializes at my elbow like she's been summoned, her hand already reaching for my arm with that determined grip that signals she's about to orchestrate something I won't enjoy. "You should dance with Derek," she announces, her voice pitched at that particular frequency that sounds like a suggestion but is absolutely a command. "It's traditional. The Maid of Honor and the Best Man. Everyone will expect it."
I follow her pointed gaze across the dance floor to where Derek stands near the bar, looking like a man who's just spotted his own execution date on the calendar. Our eyes meet. He widened in barely concealed panic. He glances toward the exit with the longing of a prisoner eyeing an unlocked cell door.
"I don't think Derek's feeling well," I say, injecting my voice with just the right amount of concerned sweetness, the tone I've perfected over years of getting out of family obligations. "He actually mentioned something about food poisoning earlier. Very sudden onset. You know how these things can be."
Derek, bless him, catches the lifeline I've thrown with both hands. He nods frantically, one hand moving to his stomachin what might be the world's least convincing performance of gastrointestinal distress. "Terrible," he croaks. "Absolutely terrible. Might be contagious, actually. I should probably keep my distance from people. Especially people I'd have to touch. Like during a dance."
My mother's mouth purses in that particular way that means she knows exactly what we're doing but can't prove it. She frowns, her gaze ping-ponging between Derek's theatrical discomfort and my innocent expression. For a moment, I think she might push, might pull out the full maternal authority card, but then someone drops a fork across the tent and her attention snaps toward the catering staff like a heat-seeking missile.
"The servers need better coordination," she mutters, already drifting away, her mission redirected toward something she can actually control.
I won't waste the opportunity. The moment her back is turned, I abandon the head table like it's on fire, weaving between chairs and dodging Aunt Patricia's attempts to flag me down for what I'm sure would be an excruciating conversation about my biological clock.
The reception tent is gorgeous. Monica spared no expense. Fairy lights drape from the ceiling in cascading waves, candles flicker in hurricane vases on every table, and the dance floor gleams like a dark mirror reflecting the glow. Couples start joining the newlyweds, swaying to the music, wrapped up in each other.
I weave through the crowd, dodging relatives who want to ask about my love life and family friends who haven't seen me since I was twelve. My target is singular.
Kruk tracks my approach with the focus of a missile lock. He doesn't move from his position against the wall, doesn't uncross his arms, but something shifts in his posture. A subtle coiling. Readiness.
I stop in front of him, suddenly aware of how small I am next to his bulk. The top of my head barely clears his sternum. I have to tilt my face to meet his eyes.
"Dance with me."
The words come out steadier than I feel. It's not a question, not a request. It's a declaration, maybe even a plea disguised as a command.
His brow furrows, the vertical line between his eyes deepening as he processes this new directive. "I do not dance." He says it with the same finality he'd use to state that gravity exists or that fire burns.
"You don't have to be good at it." I shift my weight, still looking up at him, refusing to back down despite the sheer wall of orc muscle radiating skepticism in front of me. "You just have to hold me while we sway. That's it. No complicated footwork, no choreography. Just... movement. With me."
His eyes narrow, scanning the dance floor like he's assessing enemy territory, calculating exit routes and potential hazards. "This seems tactically unsound." There's genuine concern in his voice, as if I've suggested we walk blindfolded through a minefield. "Limited mobility. Compromised sight lines. Multiple civilians in close proximity creating obstacles for rapid extraction if necessary."
I can't help the small smile that tugs at my lips. "Humor me."
I grab his hand before he can protest further. His fingers engulf mine, rough and warm and solid. I pull him toward the dance floor, acutely aware of the way conversations pause as we pass. The stares. The whispers.
Let them look.
We reach the dancers. The song shifts to something slower, something that gives couples an excuse to press close and forget anyone else exists. I turn to face him, placing one hand on his shoulder and keeping the other clasped in his.
Kruk stands rigid, arms at awkward angles, expression suggesting he'd rather face down an enemy battalion than navigate a wedding reception dance floor.
"Relax," I murmur, squeezing his shoulder gently, trying to ease some of the tension coiled in the muscles beneath my palm.
"This is relaxed." His voice is flat, unconvincing. Every line of his body screams combat-ready alertness, not romantic swaying.
"This is terrifying," I counter, unable to keep the amusement out of my tone.
His jaw tightens, and for a moment I think I've actually offended him. "I am not terrified of dancing." The words come out defensive, almost indignant. Then he pauses, and something shifts in his expression, a crack in the armor. "I am concerned about stepping on you. Your feet are small. Easily damaged. The risk of causing injury is statistically significant given the size differential and my limited experience with this particular... maneuver."
A laugh bubbles up, soft and genuine. Of course he'd frame it as a tactical concern. "Then hold me close and we'll just sway," I suggest, my voice dropping lower, more intimate. "No steps required. No complicated formations. Just... movement. Together. You can't step on my feet if they're not near yours, right?"
His free hand settles on my waist, tentative at first, then firmer. He pulls me in until I'm pressed against his chest, until I can feel the steady thud of his heartbeat through layers of fabric. The world narrows to the circle of his arms.
We don't dance so much as exist in proximity while music plays around us.
It's perfect.
